


They Should Never Give A License (to a man who drives a sleigh)

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [11]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5414162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke hits a deer with her car.</p><p>Luckily, Bellamy's grandmother lives just down the road.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Should Never Give A License (to a man who drives a sleigh)

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I was going to update Where They Think They Belong last night, but then my dad hit a deer on the way home, and things got a little strange.
> 
> title from Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer

Clarke has never in her life hit a deer while driving before—but she’s also never spent much time driving on roads that weren’t cleanly paved and clearly marked and brightly lit by the city.

But when her father finally retired, he just had to buy a pig farm. She doesn’t really know why; it’s been three months now, and her dad seems happy enough, and the farm is pretty, if constantly wet, and the pigs are really cute, but. He’d been one of the most sought after engineers in New York City for thirty years—and he’d never once mentioned farming, or pigs, or the country.

It’s not that Clarke hates the country, alright, but she _likes_ cell reception, and Starbuck’s, and actual sidewalks that she can use while wandering around Main Street.

The only Main Street in Arksburg, Pennsylvania, has a post office, a mechanics shop, a fire department, and a general store that also sells ham sandwiches on Wednesdays. There’s no RedBox, no caramel lattes—there’s not even a gas station. They have to drive the next town over for that.

It’s what they were doing now, on their way back from running errands in the just slightly larger town neighboring theirs. It’s December, so the sun has already set, and there are deer-infested woods on either side of the road, which means Clarke’s gripping the wheel with clenched knuckles, flicking her high beams on and off every second, like that somehow might help. Like a vague SOS, sent out towards the world. _Help me, I’m cold and I miss Netflix and I’m terrified of deer._

Deer, Clarke has learned, are basically demons, just lying in wait for their opportunity to leap out and fuck up people’s nights.

But she’s still never actually hit one. Until now.

“ _Sonofabitch_!” she shouts, as the Jeep swallows the doe up underneath it, kicking up a little when the body shoots out the back. She’s just hit a deer—she’s just _killed_ a deer, and probably her dad’s car, and she’s feeling a little nauseas.

Jake, meanwhile, just reaches out to squeeze her arm gently, and says “Pull over, so I can check under the hood.”

She does, shutting off the engine and switching on the hazards, while her dad walks around the front and sticks his head in to look at the engine. The car didn’t immediately shudder and die when she hit the deer, which seems like a good sign, but it’s still probably best for him to check for damage immediately.

It isn’t necessarily cold yet, not like she was expecting the northeast to be. But it’s pretty soggy, and everything is caked in mud, and it snowed a little earlier in the afternoon, so there’s a layer of dusty white on the ground. It’s chilly enough for Clarke to shiver, in the car, as she steps out to stand with her father. She has no idea what she’s looking at, but he probably appreciates the moral support.

They’ve only been pulled over for a few minutes, when an enormous red truck—the kind that almost everyone in the area drives. The kind you’d want in an apocalypse—pulls up on the shoulder in front of their car, its headlights putting them in a sort of spotlight. An middle-aged man, with one of those beards the mountain townspeople are so fond of, steps out and heads towards them.

He’s wearing three dead raccoons on his belt, and Clarke can’t help staring. She may never get used to the country.

“You all okay?” the man asks, accent a little lilting. He surveys the damaged bumper with a frown.

“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure the radiator’s shot,” Jake admits with a sigh. “Clarke, go turn the engine so I can listen to it.”

She does, and even though she doesn’t hear anything noteworthy, her dad and the stranger are both nodding down at the car sadly, mumbling _darn radiator_ under their breath. It's a little disconcerting, how easily Jake Griffin fits in, out here, even though he was born and bred in Brooklyn. She’s starting to worry she somehow stumbled into _The Twilight Zone_. She hopes this isn’t where she realizes they’re actually the ones who died and not the deer, or she starts reliving the accident over and over again, or something.

“You could park it at my mother’s place,” the man, who’s introduced himself as Nyko, shrugs. “She lives just on up the road.”

Another thing Clarke’s learned about tiny country towns is that half of the population is related. The other half is cows.

“That’d be great, thanks,” Jake agrees, and he gets in the driver’s side, which Clarke gives a sigh of relief for. She’s still not sure she’ll ever be able to drive, again.

Nyko leads them to a squat little house, with neat white trim and a big porch wrapped around the front, and a tiny Christmas tree unlit, in the window. There don’t seem to be any decorations, beyond that, or really anything very personal at all. It’s just one of many small homes in the mountain. The owner is probably a hard-faced old woman, with wrinkled skin like the leather belt she’s got hanging by the closet.

Nyko opens the front door, swiping his boots on the rug, which seems a little funny since he’s still wearing actual roadkill, and Clarke follows him in with her dad.

The house is warm, from a wood burning stove in the corner of the kitchen, tall and black and heavy-looking. It’s cast-iron, the kind from the thirties, probably an antique. In fact, most of the furniture looks antique, but used and plain and sturdy, like the house itself. Sitting in a rocking chair in the living room off to the side, is an older woman.

She’s not _too_ old; her hair’s going a little gray, but it’s mostly still auburn, and full around her shoulders. She’s knitting rather angrily, like she’d rather be tearing the scarf apart, even as she adds more swatches. There’s a small TV on in the corner, playing some old black and white movie with Cary Grant. The woman doesn’t even glance up when Nyko coughs a little.

"Mom, these folks just hit a deer down near roundabouts," he explains. "I'm takin Jake here up to the station, to report it. His daughter," he waves his hand a little, towards Clarke. "'s gonna be waitin here. Awright?"

The woman glares at her son bitingly, before looking both Clarke and her dad up and down, and then goes back to her knitting without a word. Nyko shrugs, seeming to take her silence as a _yes_ , and leads Jake back out to the truck.

Clarke stands awkwardly in the doorway, trying to decide if she should just try her luck with hitchhiking and text her dad from home, or something, when the woman heaves a sigh and points impatiently towards the floral sofa in the corner.

"You can sit," she says, sounding exasperated, which Clarke isn't sure is very fair. She could have told her son no, and refused to let her wait here. Clarke would have just left with the men. "I'm Anya," she adds, as an afterthought.

"Clarke," Clarke says, and she still feels awkward, but now she's awkward on a sofa. "Thanks for letting me stay."

"Hmph," says Anya, which seems to be the end of their conversation. Clarke doesn't really mind--a rerun of _Avatar the Last Airbender_ is on, and she loves this episode.

They're halfway through a second one, when the front door swings open. Clarke turns, expecting Nyko and her dad, but instead there's a boy, standing by the window. She can only see the top half of his body, because of the angle, but it's not a bad half, at all.

"Gramma?" he calls, and Anya sighs a little, dropping her angry scarf in her lap.

"In here," she says, but she sounds resigned about it.

Clarke watches as the boy turns towards her voice, with a muted smile on his face. She sees the exact moment he glances up and notices her, freezing where he stands in the hallway.

"Uh," he says, frowning, and now she can see that he's carrying a box of some sort. It's cardboard, and soggy, like it got left out in the snow. In permanent marker on one of the sides, it reads BELL'S STUFF.

"I'm Clarke," Clarke says, and then adds "My dad and I hit a deer," as explanation, even though it doesn't actually explain much.

"O-kay," the boy drawls, clearly still a little confused. But he's smirking around the edges, which immediately makes Clarke scowl.

It's not like hitting deer around here is unheard of--practically everyday, she sees a carcass left out by the side of the road, with its stomach split open and guts staining the road. She learned early-on she had to strengthen her stomach. During hunting season, the air starts smelling like copper, no matter where she stands.

But now he's grinning, like it's some joke. _The little blonde newbie ran into a deer, what a dork_. She wants to hit him in the face with one of Anya's pillows--they're the nice kind with little cross-stitched messages on them. The one closest to her has a weiner dog saying HOT DOG! in big bubble letters. It's cute, and Clarke's honestly surprised Anya hasn't tried to kill it or something. Stab it with one of her enormous knitting needles.

"It wasn't my fault," she says, petulant, and the boy's grin widens.

He plops the box down on the cushion beside her, and since Clarke is sitting right in the middle of the sofa, he plops himself down on her other side. "Okay," he agrees, but it still rings false a little. Like he's just placating her, like a child. "Happens all the time."

"It _does_ ," she bites out, glaring, but he just huffs a laugh and looks over at his grandmother.

"Gram, I brought the extra material over like I said, remember? O said she'd be here tomorrow for the lights."

The only indication that Anya's heard him is the slight dip of her head at his words. She's now fully engrossed in Aang's journey, knitting still forgotten in her lap. The boy frowns a little, but seems used to it. Clarke pretends not to see him pretending not to look at her. It's all very middle school, but she can't really help it. She's still kind of annoyed.

Also, she's not one hundred percent sure that Nyko didn't take her dad out and kill him; she's expecting him to show up at any moment, wearing Jake's face like Leatherface's mask, or something.

But she keeps her eyes resolutely forward, on the TV, until the boy pokes her in the arm.

"What?" she snaps, but he doesn't seem chastened.

"Where's your dad?" He sounds a little concerned about it, which is nice, until Clarke remembers he's not supposed to be nice. He's a dick.

"Nyko took him to the police station." She's sort of been thinking Nyko must be the boy's father, but she can't really see the resemblance. Maybe he takes off after his mom, or something.

"You know Uncle Nyko?"

Clarke nods. "He saw us pulled over, and offered to help. Our car's parked outside."

The boy shrugs. "I figured it was one of his. He collects junkyard cars and fixes them up out back, and then sells them again."

He doesn't have the thick mountain accent that Clarke's gotten used to, but his words still have a small lilt to them, like he's trying hard to cover it up. Now that she's actually looking at him, she can see there are snowflakes caught in the dark nest of his hair, like little white pinpricks. His eyes are dark too, and warm, and he's absolutely _covered_ in freckles, which. Well, it's a good look, that's all.

"I'm gonna go take my nap," Anya declares, pointed, and Clarke flushes for no reason at all. They hadn't even been _flirting_ , really, but she still feels like they're chasing his grandmother off.

The boy just grins, though, and offers to help her get to her bed, to which Anya threatens to _whoop_ him. He laughs, deep and bright, even though Clarke's fairly sure she was serious.

"Your grandmother's very..." she trails off, searching for the right word, and the boy grins a little wryly.

"Violent?"

"I was going to say intense," Clarke says, primly.

"Imagine learning to drive from her," he eyes her a little. "I mean, learning how to drive _properly_." 

Clarke straightens up so her glare has its full effect. "I _can_ drive."

"Sure," he shrugs, mild. "But all I'm saying is, I've lived here my whole life, and I've never hit a deer once."

" _Yet_ ," Clarke adds, bitterly, standing up.

The boy frowns. "Where are you going?"

"To wait out on the porch," she sniffs, and he scoffs, but goes to follow when she heads towards the door.

"Wait," he grabs her wrist, and then drops it immediately when she whirls on him. "Look, I'm sorry okay? But it's cold, and _snowing_. You'll die, and your dad will kill me."

Clarke rolls his eyes at the dramatics--even though she maybe started it, a bit--and sits back down. He eyes her a little warily before sinking down beside her.

"I would be terrified in a car with your grandmother," she says, as a sort of peace offering. She isn't sure how long she has left to wait, but she's not sure she can handle three more hours, being annoyed at the unfairly hot boy sitting beside her. "But it's cool that you have her. All of my grandparents died before I was born."

"Tough break," he agrees. "Anya's the nice one--Indra, my dad's mom, _she's_ the one you have to watch out for. Silent, but deadly."

"So you come from a long line of warrior women," Clarke grins, because she's forgotten to be irritated. "Very cool."

"You should see my sister," he grins. "She takes after them all."

"How old is she?"

"Thirteen," he shakes his head a little, fond. "A total _brat_ , too. She's so ready for high school." He laughs when Clarke makes a face. "Speaking of which--you don't go to Arksburg. I would've noticed you." He sounds so sure about it, and she can feel her neck going pink.

"I'm homeschooled."

The choice had been hers, and an easy one. Clarke had never held any interest in public school, especially some tiny farmtown one, where they probably taught Abstinence Only, and nothing but the American side during World War II. There's a program she's in online, which sends her all her textbooks and goes through a lesson each day. Wells is jealous; he's still stuck at the unbearable prep school in the city. He keeps threatening to run away and live in her closet, but Clarke's not sure how he'd even get here. It's not like there's a bus.

"Oh," the boy says, frowning. "Sounds boring."

Clarke bristles a little, even though it's absurd. She can't help herself; years spent living with her mother has made her defensive by nature. It's one of the reasons she moved with her dad after the divorce. "It's not, actually. It's kind of like college, where I get to pick my courses and a focus on each. Right now in history, I'm learning studying Greek and Roman mythology, which is _way_ more interesting than, like, the War of 1812, or whatever."

She's gotten too carried away, she knows, because now he's staring at her with wide eyes and a slack jaw, like he actually can't believe in her existence.

"I just mean," she adds, trying to backtrack. "History's pretty cool in general, but I've always been more interested in the different socieities, more than battles and times and dates."

He seems to realize he's staring, because he looks away and clears his throat a bit. "No, that's, um. That makes a lot of sense, actually." He turns back to squint at her a little. "What grade are you in?"

"Eleventh. You?"

"I'm graduating in June," he says, with that mixture of anxiety and awe, like he can't actually believe it's happening. She kicks him with the toe of her boot, the heavy ones that her dad bought, for work on the farm. They're black and warm and clunky and surprisingly, she loves them.

"Lucky," she says, and he makes a face. "Do you know what you want to do after?" She's careful about the question because, to be honest, most of the kids in town only go to school because they have to. Once they graduate--or, for a lot of them, drop out--they start work on the family farm full-time, or in the family grocery, or as a hand for the neighbor's farm, or something. She can't think of anyone she's met here, that's actually gone to college.

"Wilkes U," he says pretty much instantly. "It's like three hours from Philly."

"Cool," Clarke manages, trying hard not to seem surprised. He looks unimpressed though, so she's not sure he bought it. "What do you want to study?"

"History," he shrugs and then makes a face, slouching back into the couch so she has to laugh a little. "Fuck, I don't know. I'll probably teach, or something. It's hard to be a professional student, but that's kind of what I want to do. I like school--well, the learning part of it."

Suddenly he looks embarrassed, like he hadn't meant to let so much information spill out, and Clarke grins understandingly.

"It's okay, I have no idea what I want to do with my life, either," she pats him on the shoulder and he snorts.

" _No_ idea?"

Clarke shrugs. "Maybe something with art, I don't know. I don't think I have the patience to teach. Maybe biology or something--I'd always have a job."

"You could be a pro student, like me," he points out, nudging her thigh with his knee. "I'll sneak into philosophy courses, you sneak in to do pottery or whatever. Win-win."

"Until the school finds out and kicks us out," she argues.

"Buzz kill." His leg is bouncing up and down, and he looks jittery, and finally just decides to stand up. "Want some hot chocolate?"

Clarke looks up at him, raising a brow. "What, you're just deciding to play the good host game _now_?"

The boy huffs a little, over dramatic. "No, I was planning on making myself some hot chocolate, and graciously extended the offer to you. Won't happen again."

Clarke heaves herself off the sofa to follow him into the kitchen. "Oh, don't be such a baby."

She leans against the counter, watching him make the hot chocolate from scratch--fresh milk from a glass pitcher in the fridge, Hershey's cocoa powder from the brown plastic tub, cane sugar from the blue crock, and vanilla from the spice cupboard. He goes through the motions by heart, clearly having done it a hundred times, probably for his little sister. The thought makes Clarke grin.

"Marshmallows?" he asks, turning the gas stove off when it's finished, and Clarke shakes her head. He grins. "Good--I hate those things. O, my sister, has to have like twenty in hers. It's disgusting."

"Gross," Clarke agrees, taking the mug he pours her. It's beige ceramic with a ring of little flowers painted around the rim. It's pretty, the prettiest from the collection Anya's got piled by the sink, and Clarke hides her smile by blowing through the steam.

They go back to the sofa, and _Avatar_ has ended by now, turning into some old reruns of _Full House_.

"My sister has a crush on that guy," he points at Uncle Jesse, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

" _Everyone_ has a crush on that guy," she says, and he looks affronted.

"I don't!" She tenses, expecting some vaguely homophobic trash talk, which means she'll _have_ to punch him in the face, which would be a shame, because his face is very pretty. But instead he just says "I like the other one. With the puppets."

She stares at him, trying to decide if he's joking or not, but he just sips his hot chocolate quietly, so she can't really tell.

"I have a crush on Ashley Banks from _Fresh Prince_ ," she offers, as a sort of test, but he just switches the mug to his other hand, so he can offer her a fist bump.

"Nice, good taste."

Clarke hums in agreement, and she's not really sure when the room got so warm and quiet, but it has, and now on top of that, she's in a chocolate coma. She's had a high-stress day, and she's tired, okay?

The boy seems to notice and moves a little closer, so she can use his shoulder as a pillow, while he rants about something to do with Cicero. Clarke sets her empty mug on the coffee table by her feet, planning to just rest her eyes for like five minutes. Power naps are a thing, right? And he's still talking, quiet and quick, voice soothing. And his shoulder is _very_ comfortable--so much so it should probably feel weird, but it doesn't. It feels like she's known him forever, and she doesn't even know his name.

In the end, Clarke isn't sure how long she's been sleeping, when the boy shakes her awake. His eyes are soft, looking down at her. "My uncle and your dad are back," he says, voice low, even though she can tell from the sound of their voices, muffled through the window, that the men are still outside.

"Thanks for letting me pass out on you."

He shrugs, grin a little lopsided. "I have a sister, remember? I'm used to being furniture."

"Best bed I've ever slept on," Clarke chirps, and then blushes immediately. But when she glances up, his ears are red too, so she can't really regret it. "I should get your number," she decides, and he startles a little. "So you can show me around, and stuff. Teach me how to drive in the country."

He smirks. "Teach you how to drive _properly_ , you mean."

"Fuck you," she says, mild, too relaxed from her nap to get annoyed. "So was that a yes?"

"You're just trying to hit on me," he accuses, taking her phone when she offers, and typing in his number before handing it back, unnamed.

"Yeah," Clarke agrees, worrying her lip a little, looking at him through her lashes. He looks like someone just hit him in the face. "Is it working?"

He wets his lips a few times before speaking. "Uh--yeah, actually. Yes." He huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair, dislodging the curls so they all stick up at weird angles. He's flustered; it's cute. "I don't--this doesn't happen a lot."

Clarke gives him a pretty blatant once over, and smirks when his ears somehow go _redder_. "I find that hard to believe."

He rolls his eyes. "I mean, I don't usually _date_ the girls I hit on."

"Oh," Clarke hesitates, suddenly unsure. "What about the girls hitting on you?"

The boy barks a laugh, pausing a little before reaching out to readjust her hair, where it's falling out of her braid. His hand rests on her shoulder, thumb pressed against the skin at the base of her throat. "I don't know," he admits. "It's only happened the once."

"Well, we can still hang out," Clarke shrugs, shoving the disappointment away. It's not like it's the end of the world that some hot nerd won't date her; she can be pragmatic about this. "I really do need driving lessons, and my dad's about as bad as I am on these back roads."

"Yeah, it probably wouldn't have worked out, anyway. I'm leaving soon," he nods, but it feels more like he's trying to convince himself.

"Exactly," she agrees. "Long-distance never works out."

"So it'd just be like, six months at the most," he adds. "So really, what's the point?"

"Automatic date for Prom," she grins, teasing, and he nudges her in the shoulder.

"I seriously doubt _you'd_ have trouble finding a date for Prom," he says, rolling his eyes, and then stops to squint down at her. "Do you even _have_ Prom? Is it, like, a virtual chatroom or something?"

"Maybe," she sniffs, and he laughs, helping her up. The mens' voices are getting closer to the front porch, outside.

"Well, if your weird webcam Prom comes around and you still don't have a date, feel free to call me."

Clarke glances down at where he's added his number, but no name. "I don't know what to save you as."

He flushes all down his face and neck and, she's pretty sure, further down, although she can't see for sure. "Oh, shit, that's right. Uh, it's Bellamy. Bellamy Blake."

She types it in and hits save, before grinning up at him, stretching her hand out. "Nice to meet you, I'm Clarke Griffin."

Bellamy takes her hand and shakes it, and there's a very long pause where he keeps hold, skin warm against hers, while he looks like he's seriously debating with himself over something.

She's very sure he's trying not to kiss her.

And then the front door opens, and her dad marches in, and Bellamy drops her hand like he's been burned. She rolls her eyes, and he sticks his tongue out.

"Thanks for the hot chocolate," she grins, stretching up on her toes to press a peck to his cheek, before she follows her dad out to their car. He's called AAA to tow it, and give them both a ride home, and the truck driver is waiting for them outside.

"What was that about?" Jake asks with raised brows, a smile dancing around the edges.

There's a grin that's been threatening to break out over Clarke's face for the past half hour, so she finally lets it, staring down at her toes. Her phone feels heavy with promise in the back pocket of her jeans.

She shrugs, trying to seem nonchallant about it. "I made a new friend."

"Just in time for Christmas," her dad says, happy, as they slide into the towtruck.

Clarke glances back towards the little house with the little tree inside. She can see Bellamy's silhouette in the kitchen, where the sink would be, probably washing their mugs like the housewife he secretly is.

 _Yeah_ , she thinks. _Just in time_.


End file.
